Legacy House Control Room
"Well, he's asleep," said Sloan as he stepped through the hologram into the
dimly lit control room. "What have you found, Alex?"
"Some, but not a lot," replied the researcher, looking up from her flat-panel
display.
Sloan glanced at Rachel, who was pacing the room like a trapped lioness.
Slipping his hands into his pants pockets, he waited for the explosion he knew was
coming.
Finally, it came. "This is insanity, William... and you know it," she said. "He
needs to be in a hospital and scheduled for surgery now. Believe it or not, not
everything can be chalked up to a curse or demonic possession or Legacy mumbo-jumbo." She came face to face with the Ruling Precept. "People get sick, even
Legacy precepts," she declared. "Even Derek Rayne."
"Rachel," Alex interrupted, "the early flu-like symptoms could fit something
I've just found."
"I don't care," the doctor snarled. "They could also fit dozens of bacteria and
viruses out there... nasty things that can cause all sorts of strange maladies... more
than the medical establishment ever wants to admit. Remember the Hanta virus... in
the Southwest, I might add... or Legionnaires' Disease... Ebola, Denge Fever?
"Mr. Sloan, this is your responsibility," she insisted. "Judging from his
present condition... Derek won't make it to Arizona."
Alex exchanged worried a glance with Nick, who sat at the other computer
charting the chopper's flight path.
Sloan's back stiffened. "Doctor Corrigan," he said firmly, "I realize that you
are coming at this from a medical perspective. That's your job... but the world is
not this neat little place where hospitals, surgery, and drugs solve everything. You
asked me not to play 'bait-the-bear', now I'm asking you not to fight Derek on this.
He knows about medicine. He also knows about death... he's probably seen more
of heaven and hell and everything in between than all of us put together... even
me."
The precept paused as a thought he didn't particularly like entered his mind.
"This trip could be his way of trying to find a cure, but," he admitted, "it could also
be his way of removing the option of a hospital and the machines that go with it.
He's been there." Slowly, he walked around to stand behind Alex. He gazed down
at her computer's screen without seeing it. "But," he added, raising his head again,
"don't lose your faith in Derek. He might be nuts, but he's stronger than anyone
I've ever known. If anyone can dig inside himself to survive, it's Derek Rayne."
The doctor in Rachel was not ready to yield. Tossing her long hair back, she
began again in the tone she used to help her patients reason their way through their
problems. "As much as I sometimes want to punch his lights out for that damned
paternalistic, Machiavellian way he has, it's time we all acknowledged something.
Derek is our bastion. We lean on him as though he's indestructible... even you...
Mr. Sloan. I know you always give him your most difficult cases, even when
they're not within San Francisco's jurisdiction.
"Well... I have news... he's not indestructible, and we've all seen it. His mind
and body have taken a dreadful beating over the years. God knows what happened
during that time when his medical records are virtually non-existent... though I
suspect you know. I shudder to think. Perhaps he's reached his limit."
The flicker of a smile crossed the precept's face... the same had been said
fifteen years ago. "And if he has, it's still his choice," said William.
Sloan's fleeting expression had not escaped the psychiatrist. She exploded
again. "What the hell are you smirking at?" she demanded. "I'm never sure if he's
really your friend or not, but I know you can't afford to lose him as a precept."
Nick looked up from his refueling calculations. "A memory, Mr. Sloan?" he
hinted. "Something my father maybe said a long time ago?"
"Your father and others," the precept replied. "It wasn't true then... and it's
not true now."
"Something I should know about, gentlemen?" Rachel asked. Damn the
Legacy secrets... damn male secrecy, she thought. They close ranks like the Iron
Brigade. "I am, after all, his doctor!" Rounding on the younger man, she continued,
"I don't get you, Nick. You bitch about them, but you're as bad as they are."
"No, doctor... nothing you need to know about at the moment," Sloan
interrupted to calmly put an end to the discussion. "Just a half-remembered
nightmare that's best forgotten."
Suddenly an alarm sounded. Everyone jumped as its strident buzzes shattered
the tension. Nick's hands flitted over the computer's keyboard. The blueprints of
the house and grounds appeared on his own screen and on the large master screen.
Sloan stepped aside to allow the House's security chief the full view.
"It's the alarm on the kitchen windows," said Nick, punching up the camera
view for the mansion's south side. "There it is. It's one of the gardeners. He must
be planting the herb garden Dom wanted... must've bumped one of the windows."
Nick looked closely at his panel, then rose to study the large main screen. "I can't
tell who it is. I'll take care of it," he said as he headed toward the door. "Alex... hit
the reset button for the alarm."
Rachel sank into Nick's vacant seat as Sloan stepped away for a moment to
rub his eyes and compose himself. Sometimes, Dr. Corrigan's vehemence grated on
his nerves, but he had always valued those who spoke their minds and refused to
back down. What he didn't like was an inflexible mind. Sometimes, despite all that
she had witnessed and endured, he wondered if Rachel's wasn't a bit too dogmatic
for the Legacy. Finally, with a sigh, he rejoined the two women.
"Alex, what did you find?"
"Well," the researcher began, "the letter is a forgery. The handwriting was
not a match and Sam Begay died of pneumonia about two weeks after Derek was in
Santa Fe."
"So," Sloan reasoned, "odds are, it's a trap of some sort... and, whoever it is
wants us to know that it's a trap. What about Lila Lolotse?"
"She's Hopi. There is a little paperwork on her from the Bureau of Indian
Affairs, but no birth certificate... not uncommon for someone her age. She claims to
be over a hundred. No Social Security card... never had a driver's license... no
marriage record.
"I did a periodicals scan," she continued, "and came up with this story from
five years ago from the newspaper in Window Rock, Arizona. It said that her
family's medicine bundle... all those items that are needed for rituals and
ceremonies... was stolen from a cabinet in her house at Old Oraibi."
Alex keyed up a map of eastern Arizona. "It's there on what they call the
Third Mesa... just off highway 264 about eighty miles north of I-40... on the Hopi
reservation, which is surrounded by the larger Navaho reservation. Some believe it
to be the oldest continuously inhabited site in the United States, but there are rival
claimants... especially the Acoma pueblo in New Mexico. However, some of Old
Oraibi's buildings have cross beams that date to the thirteenth century.
"Anyway... without the contents of the bundle, the ceremonies, songs, and so
forth cannot be passed on to her successor. There was a plea to return it and a fairly
large reward offered."
"Yes," Sloan agreed, pulling off his glasses as he stepped away from his
study of the map. "The rituals will die with her... and if the ceremony is removed
from the cycle, the world will go out of balance."
"You know about this?" Alex asked in surprise. "What if we go get Mrs.
Lolotse and bring her here. Then Derek wouldn't have to go and we might upset
their plans... whoever 'they' are."
"I spent time there working on some Anasazi ruins in Chaco Canyon," the
Ruling Precept explained. "The old ones, like her, don't budge. They believe that
they are a part of the land and that it's their rituals that keep the universe in
harmony. Some aspects of their religion almost parallels Tibetan and Hindu
mysticism... right down to the belief in psychic centers within the body."
"You mean like what my Yoga master called chakras?" asked Rachel.
"Very similar," replied Sloan. "Anyway, this connectedness to the earth is
why the government enforced Hopi-Navaho population swap of a few years ago was
so hard on the older Hopi. Several died when they were forced to move from their
homes on Navaho lands to new homes on the Hopi reservation. The Navahos, who
are herders and more nomadic, fared much better.
"What did you find out about the Navaho witchcraft and magic?" Sloan
asked. "When I was in Chaco Canyon, we were more concerned about a link
between the Anasazi, the probable ancestors of the current Pueblo tribes, and the
peoples of central Mexico and coastal California, then we were about late-comers
like the Navaho."
"There's very little written," said Alex. "It's not a topic the Navaho discuss
even with each other. They're very superstitious about ghosts and witches, who are
commonly called 'skinwalkers' because of their shapeshifting abilities. According
to a study published by the Peabody Museum in the late forties, witches are said to
gain their power by killing a near relative... usually a sibling. They then use their
powers to make money from blackmail or selling their skills for revenge... or they
aim their magic at victims out of jealousy... or just for pleasure. Nasty customers on
the whole."
"Rachel," Alex continued as she touched her friend's elbow. "Here's what I
was trying to tell you about 'corpse poison'. The study says, it's 'a preparation
made from the flesh of corpses,'" she quoted. "'The flesh of young children,
particularly twins is preferred.... The bones from the back of the head and skin
whorls are the prized ingredients. This "corpse poison" is ground into a fine
powder, often mixed with corn meal. It looks like pollen. It can be dropped into the
hogan,' the traditional Navaho house," she explained, "'through the smoke hole...
administered in a cigarette... or most commonly blown into the victim's face while
in a crowd.'"
Sloan stepped closer. "Didn't Derek say something about the fan in his hotel
room having blown dust everywhere?... Go on," he urged.
Looking directly at Rachel, Alex continued, "Usually the onset of symptoms
is rapid... sometimes lockjaw... but mostly fainting and coma. Sometimes,
however... now, get this... it produces a wasting type disease that none of the usual
ceremonial treatments can cure. Sounds like Derek's flu, doesn't it?"
"Did it say anything about the heart?" the doctor asked as she leaned
forward.
"Mom," Kat called as she approached the hologram. "I need to talk to you."
Rachel swung around to tap the key to drop the electronic barrier. "Just a
minute, sweeetie," she said, stretching her hand out to her daughter.
"Nothing about the heart per se," the researcher replied, "but some practice a
form of magic, borrowed from the Spanish, that seems to have a number of voodoo
traits. It seems to be a different form of witchcraft and apparently the two varieties
don't mix."
Suddenly, Nick's voice broke through on the intercom. "Guys, this is weird,"
he said. "No one was there. There was freshly turned soil for Dom's garden, but no
footprints where there should have been footprints. He had to have been standing in
the dirt. All that was there were paw prints... really big ones... must have been a
mastiff. I'm going to check around the house then do a perimeter check."
"Nick... could it have been a wolf?" Alex suggested.
"A wolf? You're joking," replied the former SEAL. "They weren't clean
enough to tell much... definitely canine... but there are only five dogs on the
island... nothing that size. I'll see if anyone's brought a new animal over. I'll check
back later."
Excitement filled Alex as she turned to the others. "The witchcraft study said
that the paw prints of 'skinwalkers', when in their were-animal form, are unusually
large. The preferred animal is the wolf. In fact, it says that the word
'ma?i.coh', meaning 'wolf', is synonymous with 'skinwalker'."
"Mom," Kat persisted.
"Katherine... shhh... just wait a moment," Rachel ordered.
Sloan began pacing. "OK," he said. "I'll tell Nick to get the chopper ready.
Rachel... you handle the medical end. We take whatever medical supplies and
equipment we need, even if we take nothing else. Alex... you're staying here to
continue your investigation."
"No," the researcher objected. "I'm going too. I can handle the research just
as easily from there."
The Ruling Precept stopped before the console. Staring down, he countered,
"You will do as I say. This is not open for discussion."
Alex rose to her feet. "I say it is. I stayed here to continue the research when
Julia went to Ireland, and then had to scatter my best friend's ashes over the lagoon.
I will not stay again only to have Derek's ashes brought back, too."
"Derek allows entirely too much disputation in this House," Sloan criticized.
"Miss Moreau," he continued after a pause, "we are doing this job... as we would
do any other job. I need Dr. Corrigan and Mr. Boyle with me, but I also need
someone here.
"Besides," he explained sharply, "you may have to fly to Santa Fe to visit the
hotel and interview some of these people in person. It will be easier and take less
time for you to get there from here, than it would for you to go from the middle of
the reservation. Nick would not be able to fly you. We cannot risk the absence of
the chopper for even a few hours."
"Mother! Everybody!" Kat interrupted as her child's voice deepened in
anger. "I have to go with you."
"What?" said Rachel, spinning about in shock to face her daughter.
"Absolutely not."
"Christina said so," Kat insisted as she backed away from her mother.
"Christina?" said Sloan hesitantly. "You know about Christina?"
"Yes," the little girl replied with equal hesitancy. Silently, she studied the
Ruling Precept. She could sense a twisting suspicion, but she also felt his fear and
affection for Derek. "She's my friend. She said that whatever happens I have to
stay with Derek."
"Honey...," Rachel said softly.
"What did she say? Exactly," asked Sloan, fixing the child with his most
penetrating stare. With surprise, he saw her back straighten, her chin raise, and her
blue eyes meet his own with an assurance that reminded him of a certain Dutch
youngster he had known at Oxford.
"Mostly she just sang and danced to my music," Kat replied. "I'm not sure I
remember exactly... she used funny words and it was kind of long."
"Try, sweetie," said Alex with quiet encouragement. "It's very important."
"I know that," she snapped as her back became ramrod straight. She
furrowed her brows in thought, but nothing came. Finally, she shut her eyes and
swayed to her waltz. "OK," she whispered, then began to hum. After a moment,
she froze in place and spoke in a voice that grew increasingly like the small, ancient
spirit's:
With Derek Rayne you must go,
Tho' your mother gainsay, 'No!'
Nigh the champion bide you must,
Lest the anointed bleed to dust
And the mage's blade do rust.
Then House is lost.
Legacy is lost.
All is lost.
Suddenly, Kat opened her eyes to meet the precept's hard, blue gaze. She
saw it waver, and watched as he blanched and suddenly turned away. Through
Sloan, she felt the seriousness and the truth of her rhyme. Quickly, she looked
toward her mother, then walked to stand before Rachel.
"Mom," she said intently, "we lost Papa and Connor. We can't lose Derek
too... and this time it would be our fault."
